The Hell Between Us
by T.L. Arens
Summary: S7. Authors Note challenge: Dean suffers a terrible nightmare that shakes him to the core. Sam comforts him.


ANCon SUPERNATURAL Challenge from Xenascully, a challenge to appear in a voting poll in June. (information available under xenascully FB page and then from there access AN site.)

The Hell Between Us

Jack ran out. The last golden drop plipped into Dean's glass like a death knell.

Very sad. At four AM, Sunday morning, chances for an open store were nill to none. Ah, the Bible belt. Religion at its finest. Dean read the Bible for himself; did so many times during the Apocalypse. He found nothing that said 'no alcohol on Sundays'. Even Christ drank, right? 'Don't be drunk, but be filled with the spirit' and all that. Yeah, he knew better.

But Dean drank with a purpose and maybe that was the whole idea. Of course, he thought of using his father's example as an excuse. After a hunt, John came to the shabby motel, grunted half a greeting to his sons then climb into the bottle.

Dean slumped over the little table and pressed the empty bottle to his head. What the hell was he doing? Seriously. What the hell... what the hell did Hell do to him? The lines he fed Sammy over the years nagged like an old woman shaking her finger at him. '_You take that crap and you BURY it!'_ Hell is underground, but it's never buried. "_You shove it down and you let it come out in spurts of violence and alcoholism_."

Even Dean, who congratulated himself with his ingrained ability to suppress failed to block, drown or wall up everything inside him. He didn't so much as breathe about his personal pain to anyone, not even Sammy. Real men forget the past and move on. Real men didn't go crying to mommy every time they skinned their knees or lost their...

Dean lifted his eyes when his little brother shifted under the sheets and half muttered in his sleep. No doubt Dean's ass was bound for a swift kick in the morning. The stuff he put in Sam's soda wasn't prescription strength; just enough to invite the sandman. Still, Sam most likely might not find amusement in the act of mercy.

Dean's own soda sat on the bed stand, untouched. Without another shot of 'hunter's helper' to submerge the rest of his brain matter, Sam's brother retired to his bed and turned the boob tube on and muted it. Just because he couldn't (_refused)_ to sleep, didn't mean Sam had to join him in personal misery.

Dean withdrew Bobby's flask and studied it for the billionth time. He picked up his soda and sipped it with a frown; no ice, no taste. The empty flask reflected his own heart. The world, so huge and so full of people meant nothing to Dean. He lost his enthusiasm over saving people and killing evil things. Were it not for Sam, Dean would've just...

He swallowed the clod of emotions and wished he might fade away. No heaven, no hell, just fade off into nothing. Heaving a sigh, Dean downed another mouthful of soda and eyed Animal Planet's _Call of the Wild Man_.

Seriously, where do they _find_ these people? Maybe the guy was possessed. Yeah, okay. As if a demon is going to possess some human weirdo who acts like a rabid chimpanzee.

Anything is possible.

Someone knocked at the door.

At four AM? Dean scrunched his face, annoyed and chose to ignore it.

_Pak, pak, pak, pak._

He took another sip of watery soda and watched the wild man as the bafoon turned into an animated character. He swung through the jungle; a bad imitation of Tarzan.

_Krak, krak, krak!_

Huffing, Dean rolled off the bed and glimpsed at his sleeping brother. If anyone wakes Sammy, he'd kill them. Dean peered through the peephole. The last rays of sunset backlit the stranger. A long duster hid his body type, a black trilby concealed the shape of his head and most of his face.

With a private growl, Dean unlatched the safety, twisted the deadbolt and opened the door.

"Hello, Dean." Zachariah grinned, his teeth stained with Sam's blood. Dean choked and tried to close the door. But the contemptible angel blocked it with his foot. "That's not very nice," Zachariah's eyes flashed golden-yellow. "All I want is a few words. You know you want to talk to me. Hell's waiting for you to return, Dean."

Dean shoved him back and the door almost clicked closed when Zachariah blasted it asunder. He ruthlessly gripped Dean by the jacket and yanked him across the threshold.

Stumbling forward, Dean breathed in the white-hot winds of Hell. Now alone, he staggered along a road paved with the distorted, flattened faces of the screaming dead. The whites of their hollowed eyes roved back and forth, ever seeking solace from their eternal agony.

The heat forced Dean to strip his jacket and shirts. His shoes partly melted on the road and left bloodied prints in his wake.

"Sam!"

The torrent of searing windstorms tore the sound from Dean's voice. He called and called while his skin blistered. He called until he choked. He bent over, longing for the cool, crisp air of a South Dakota winter.

Sam was gone, trapped in the worst prison imaginable; the devil's plaything. Dean heaved with grief. Alone for eternity, all that remained were the ignorant faces of a woman and her child who welcomed him into their lives. But they weren't Sam.

Hot blood filled his mouth and Dean spit on the road; spit in the face of a damned soul. Silenced by the glass barrier between he and Dean, the angry soul's lips moved in fury. Dean spit again and two of his teeth tumbled and bounced on the road.

"_There is no God."_

Dean stood straight. The path of the dead led him to the outer edges of Hell's Delatax City. Looming to his right sat the Interrogator; a machine constructed of iron and hatred that resembled the head of a man. Towering over forty feet, the mechanical beast breathed in sorrow and spoke blasphemes. Sculpted by nameless, condemned angels, the eyeless abomination tracked all visitors to the city of grief.

Dean instinctively knew this was only the Interrogator's topmost portion. The rest of the great machine resided in three other levels in Hell, each part more hideous than the last.

Dean drew a deep breath and coughed until he spit out an organ. It lay there until it rolled over and wormed away, bitching of Dean's insensitivity. "Whatever," he muttered. "I'm looking for Sam."

"_Sam isn't here."_ the great head spoke with a booming voice, carried across the land by the unending winds.

"He's in Hell."

"_You'll always be here."_

The words ate into Dean's heart like acid. He HATED this place! He HATED Hell! "I wanted my brother!" he shouted.

Bobby rolled his eyes as he tied on the butcher's apron. "Nobody likes your fucked-up brother, Dean. You have to admit that. Sam's supposed to die. Go back to Lisa."

Dean choked and swallowed hard. "Sam's m' little brother. Doesn't he love me?"

Bobby picked up a handsaw and bounced it, testing its weight. "Sure he does. But he ain't gettin' you back. An' he's not gettin' outta Hell, either. Go back to Lisa."

The world zeroed into a lone operating room. All lights faded until one bright light focused on a sterile operating table. Bobby's left face lifted in a snarky grin. "You wanna slice?"

"What?"

Bobby twisted away then back and handed Dean a small paper plate brightly decorated with birthday cakes. A fresh chunk of warm human flesh lay on it. Bobby sawed off another slice.

"Hey," Castiel called, "can I have another piece?"

Dean watched as the angel bloodied his face and hands with a piece of Sam's arm. Standing behind the angel, Alastair met Dean's eyes and he too grinned with red stained teeth.

Dean's lips trembled with anguish. "I want Sam," his voice broke and he thought about hugging the little piece of flesh; it was all he had left of his brother. Dean sank to his knees and openly wept. "I want Sam... Sam..."

But nobody cared. Nobody loved Sammy's smile and nobody loved how Sam was so smart and funny. Nobody loved to hug him.

There arose a great multitude of people, numbering beyond count. Both the great and the unknown stood side by side, all gathered before the largest stage in Hell. Dean's heart heaved and he dragged several deep, searing breaths of baking air to keep from blacking out. The flames, invisible and not, burned his mouth.

Sam. Lucifer. Lucifer in Sam's body, paced the stage like a rooster. He held his head high and gazed across the throng with terrible vacant eyes.

"_They put me here,"_ Lucifer declared.

Dean gagged over the archangel's 'poor me' speech. He turned and in the dark, faced the bastard first as Nick, then Sam. "_Sam belongs with me, Dean,"_ The pitying look enraged Dean and he wanted to pound the angel out of his brother.

Sam lifted his head toward the sky. His mouth split wide and a forked tongue snapped out between three sets of gleaming, jagged teeth.

Dean sat in the plane, strapped to the chair as the Lucifer-ide laviathan wormed and floundered against him. Its dripping tongue licked the side of his face, rough and wet like a cat. The plane tipped sideway and dropped from the sky like a brick.

Free fall.

Down.

The Luci-viathan whipped, slimy and gross all over Dean.

Down.

"Sam!" Sam was in there somewhere!

Down.

Luci-viathan reared up and its terrible jaws surrounded Dean's face-

"Nooo! **SAM!**" Dean shot up. Sweat soaked his bed and clothes. He staggered off and tripped over a pile of discarded blankets. He ran for the door, his heart slammed against his ribs. He panted and ran into the dark until the ground bit and sliced into his bare feet. They made him think of the barbs Alastair used to... Dean gripped his hair and took in a three-sixty of his surroundings.

"Dean?"

The wind carried Sam's voice into the stillness. Dean didn't know what town they landed in. The motel, abandoned and ramshackled, offered no comfort further than stolen electricity, a ceiling and four walls. Moonlight cast blue light and ghosting shadows along the remains, between abandoned automobiles and the cold quieted the world.

"Dean." Sammy called with a steady voice.

Older brother bowed over, hands on knees, head down. He heard Sam approach, but said nothing "Hey," Sammy called again.

Dean coughed out the cold. "Yeah," he answered. "I'm good."

"Okay," Sam kept his distance. "I'm, uh... I'm gonna use that hot chocolate we bought yesterday, 'kay?"

"Yeah. Sure." Dean did not move. He shivered but not from the cold. Dream left-overs flashed across his brain. Oh, God, did he eat Sam? Did he? And that... thing, that... sonofabitch... that wasn't Sam. Couldn't be.

Man-up. Dean forced himself to straighten up, face the world and face the present. Push all the crap back into his private Pandora's Box. He ambled two steps back to their lightless room. Sammy was there. The laptop softly glowed with battery life.

Weren't they watching some bad TV?

Sam lay on the operating table. They cut him up and ate him. He turned into a Laviathan.

Dean choked up and stood in front of the motel room door. Stop it. Just stop whining like a little gurl. Just a dream, right? Sure. He was good. It was all good. He swallowed hard. Stuff all that crap down. Smile in place. Sam doesn't need to see this.

_That_ image flashed. It hurt; poison in his gut, acid in his back. Dean bowed over again and failed to reign in the sob in his throat. Tears dripped from his eyes and hit his foot. He could not breathe. _They held him suspended in space and time, locked by burning chains. And they ripped chunks off his body. They dug into his intestines and one of them ate his heart. They raped him-again. "Sammy loves you,_"_ they sang. "Sammy loves you!" _Dean grit his teeth and another sob squeaked past his defenses.

Dean did not see the door open. He did not hear his little brother step out. But a warm, familiar jacket slipped over his shoulders. Large hands gripped him and strong arms wrapped him in gentle security.

Dean lost control and brokenly, openly sobbed. He wept, every bitter tear for every day and every person he lost. Sam said not a single word as they lingered while Dean grieved. He shivered against his brother until Sam guided him inside and they sat on Dean's bed, in the dark and the quietly private.

Dean's head milled with one thought after another, a storm of memories, emotions and wishes. Sam sat with him, patient and supportive. "I never wanted you to say yes," Dean's small voice carried terrible weight in the space between them. His eyes, hollowed out by the nightmare, fixated on one spot: Sam's laptop. "I never wanted Dad to die. I never..." he choked again. Castiel's name lay on his lips like an unspoken sacred word. "Don't know what to do. Don't know what to do." Dean's lungs constricted. His eyes and sinuses ached with unshed tears. He spoke one more time, his words trembled a single pitch above a whisper. "Don't ever say 'yes' again, Sammy. I'm begging you. Don't."

The silence thickened with too many crushing emotions and not enough words to carry their load. Sam rested an arm across his brother's shoulders. Dean did not object or move. Nor did he recoil when Sam locked him closer with his other arm. They sat there, in the dead of night; Sam held his brother while the Laviathan took greater control of the outside world.

End.

T.L. Arens


End file.
